


Censored by the Roman Coalition for the Sanctity of Fanfic

by Caepio



Category: Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Author Commentary, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author might have been drunk, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bake Sale, Beyonce - Freeform, Cassius being sneaky, Cassius' Failed Schemes, Competition, Confusion, Corgis, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fundraising, Humor, Humour with a U because that's how it SHOULD be spelled, I'm Too Sexy For My Toga, Inexplicably Modern Ancient Rome, K-Pop - Freeform, Lascivious Mark Antony, Light-Hearted, Love, M/M, Marriage, Mothers that want grandchildren, Naked Romans, Not saying the Author WAS, Pederasty, Photography, Pinup calendar, Relationship Fix-It, Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Humor, Slash, Teasing, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unrequited Love, Vegas, but they might have been, insult wars, kind of, strawberry daiquiris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: Buckle yourself in for a wild ride through the most unlikely tale ever to hit the JC fandom since the last piece of Brassius smut went public. If there are any real Romans reading this... All I have to say is, I'm so sorry.





	1. Prologue

Dearest Reader,

Imagine if you please, a Rome unlike any Rome you’ve ever heard of - where somehow our favorite, suicidal, overly honourable, frequently immoral characters can coexist with delightful things like “Cars” and “Living Rooms”, “Vegas” and “Pinup Calendars.” Also no one's dead.

Then imagine they’ve all gone completely crazy. 

Forgive me. None of this is my fault. The heart wants what the heart wants. And Fanfic writers write whatever they find amusing at 2 am. (No offense to the many fine, upstanding writers who write at other hours of the day as well. You’re all lovely people. Simply lovely).

This will be your scheduled break from the usual agenda of “blood, heartbreak, and the OTP that no one else appreciates”. Ladies and Gentleman, (there are a few of you gents out there reading this, aren’t there? Please?) it is with great pleasure that I present:

#### Mr. Marcus Censorinus and the War of the Naked Romans

##### or: How a Pinup Calendar Saved the Marriage of Marcus Junius Brutus (last of his name) and His Gorgeous Wife, the Immensely Stoic, Portia Catonis.

*the sound of canned applause and cheers fades into the distance* 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't an official warning for "gratuitous humour of the crass and blatantly sexual kind" so, consider this your warning. You've been warned.


	2. In which we are introduced to The Central Conflict

To say that the marriage of Marcus Brutus and Portia Catonis was a failure would be… well. An understatement. It was not a failure in the way most marriages were a failure. There was no screaming or hurling of vases that had been given as expensive wedding gifts from people you really didn’t like to begin with (their taste in expensive vases didn’t help). No - I rather think that Brutus, at least, would have welcomed that development. It would have been a sign of passion in an otherwise god awful boring relationship.  


They were both good people. That was the problem. They both had ‘A Reputation’. That was the other problem. They were both more interested in their reputations than they were in making the bedroom a place you’d want to spend any time. They both obviously hadn’t been introduced to the idea of a ‘Reputation in the Sack’.  


At any rate, they were the product of a classic love match of Shakespearean proportions. That and philosophy. Darn philosophy, always getting in the way of the sexy times. Unless you're an Epicurean. Then you _GO_ for it, girl. Anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Junius Brutus (Did you know they were first cousins? Just imagine the children…) needed to rediscover the spark in their marriage right quick, and a 15th honeymoon probably wouldn't be of much use. It’s _amazing_ the amount of paper work that can be done on vacation in Honolulu. No... Something more drastic was definitely required.


	3. The Gimmick

In retrospect, Mr. Marcus Censorinus thought he should have turned the offer down. Retrospect was not much use at present.  


The whole problem started because the Roman Army needed funds. It was running low on money. Coin. Pinka pinka. So - like all upstanding, self respecting, well trained Romans, they decided to sexualize the whole thing and just make a calendar. “Men in Armor (and Out)” was one possible title. And Mr. Censorinus probably should have stopped there and left the whole thing to a more _enterprising_ individual. But he prided himself on being able to take on any task, no matter the err… Size… So he said yes. Gods how he hated that yes.  


You see - The Roman Senate got jealous. That’s where it all went downhill - As most of the members of the Roman Senate were downhill from the age at which they should be doing these things. Downhill and over the hill. There was not much that was up.  


Yes. That was definitely the problem. The Roman Senate should never have gotten competitive.


	4. How, once again, the Roman Republic's Only Hope is MJB

The Roman army was very well behaved. Well of course. They were paid to be. And they all knew they looked fantastic. Kind of hard not to. The Roman Senate was giving themselves migraines over their image. For the most part they were not young, they were not good looking, and a legislative scroll could hide most of what they were packing.  


There were, however, one or two exceptions. Well. One really. Marcus Brutus. ( _Shut up_ , Cinna, no one cares what you looked like 20 years ago), And it would be easier to declare Caesar emperor of Rome than it would be to persuade Brutus to strip for a calendar. Every senator did make a valiant effort at it though. They were all, individually, and uniformly, shown the door, or the hall, or the street, depending on their chosen battle ground.  


It was Cassius however, who had the winning stratagem. He had something of a stake in it after all. He’d been trying for years to get a glimpse of Brutus ‘au naturel’. He wasn’t going to miss this perfect opportunity. So, he explained, in very succinctly worded, anonymous memos, that the success of such a calendar was: 

  * “A matter of honour for the whole of the Senate”
  * “The winning of this competition with the army was a civic duty”
  * “A true Roman would be willing to do whatever it took to insure the honour of Rome and his family.” 



He then threw these memos in Brutus’ window at odd hours of the night, pasted them to his car windows, and almost got caught trying to slip them into his sock drawer. And faster than you can say “Ides of March”, Brutus was reconsidering his position and calling the photographer's studio. A date was set for the following Wednesday, calendars were marked, Cassius was roundly congratulated, and Marcus Junius Brutus had a panic attack at 11:20 on the Tuesday before _The Grand Day of Nudity_ and went to seek the help of the only man who could possibly offer him advice on his coming day of travail.  


Thus, Marcus Junius Brutus found himself on the front porch of Mark Antony’s house on a Tuesday at 11:26 AM.


	5. At the Headquarters of the Inebriati

Our scene opens on a lovely, rainy Tuesday in November, on a charming suburban street, in front of a- 

Well I was going to say charming but really it looks like a den of all iniquity (Brutus’ words, not mine) 

_-a house_ with a wide front porch and some suspicious looking weeds in the front garden. The protagonist of our tale stands upon this front porch, looking like he could do with a healthy dose of Xanax. He knocks, and after a suspiciously short pause, the door opens. 

“Antony.” 

“Brutus.” 

Thus all great conversations in literature begin. 

“Are you going to come in or are we doing this on the front porch today?” Antony wasn’t wearing a great deal, truth be told, and it _was_ rather cold out. 

“I’m not coming inside that sex den you call a house.” 

“Oh is _that_ how it’s going to be today.” 

“Shut up, I’m here on business.” 

“Are you ever not?” 

“No.” 

Brutus always looked like he was wherever he was ‘on business’ so it really _was_ rather difficult to tell. 

Antony leant against the doorway and looked at Brutus speculatively, “You might want to think about relaxing, people might start to get the wrong idea about you.” 

“And what would that be?” 

“That you’re an uptight, backstabbing, prick with no sex life to speak of.” 

“And you’re a drunken sex addict with delusions of godhood and a copycat complex about Caesar that’s worse than your inability to have a meaningful relationship!” 

“Why you-” 

(Unfortunately what followed was deemed too scandalous to be shown to the fine, upstanding people of the Roman Republic.  
However: Have you ever listened to one of those old radio shows? The ones with the _really_ unlikely plots where people get into these vast battle scenes but all you can hear are the dubious noises of swords clanging and people making noises that they really hope don’t sound sexual and there's lots of screaming and blood and death but you can’t actually _see_ any of it? Yeah. Imagine that for a second if you please.)  


Sometime later…. (After the traditional bout of insults and attempts to kill each other has passed) there could be heard, from several blocks away, the sound of Brutus shouting: 

“I was 16! It doesn’t count!” 

(I’m sorry, did I say they’d finished with the preliminary arguing? I meant just winding to a close… Indulge me a moment longer dear reader.) 

“I know I’m everybody’s “It was just the one time and I was drunk”, but give me a little more credit than saying it didn’t count!” Antony may have actually been offended, but it was hard to tell given that he was hopping around the porch nursing a bruised shin. 

“I’m not gay!” Brutus’ voice cracking on the last word somewhat weakened his position. 

“Sure.” 

“I have a wife!” 

“So do I!” 

“12 separate elopements to Vegas do not a marriage make!” The pictures on the mantlepiece from each of those separate elopements were, however, splendid. The drive through wedding chapel with the lollipop wedding rings was a real winner. 

“Maybe,” Antony said, very reasonably, “but at least _I’m_ having sex.” 

“Marriage isn’t all about the sex-“ 

“Has it really been that long…” Antony was looking at Brutus with the concerned expression of a therapist who has just found out that their patient had a more than usually friendly relationship with the parish priest as a small child. 

“There’s supposed to be a union of minds and- and- Romance and…” 

“So…. What you’re saying is you don’t have sex anymore?” 

“-friendship, you know? That thing where you share your soul with someone and-“ 

“Oh like that thing that women always want to happen after sex… Come to think of it, I remember you being pretty keen on that too…” 

Brutus blanched and looked up and down the street nervously, _“That’s not what I came here to talk about.”_

“What did you come here to talk about?” 

“Cicero sent me to tell you to stop accidentally projecting pornographic films onto the screens in the conference room during the annual Thursday Board Meeting where no one tries to kill each other.” 

They both stared at each other for a minute, that gem of a sentence hanging in the air, and then Antony grinned. “Who says it was an accident…” 

“You do. Every time.” 

“Not my fault no one else appreciates my idea of fun…” Antony muttered, limping over to the front door, “Well.” He held the door open and Brutus stalked past, “You did get rather off topic there didn’t you.” 

“Shut up.” Brutus took off his coat and settled into His Usual Chair in the living room. 

“This is actually about the photo shoot isn’t it.” 

There was a pause, of the formal, “I’m supposed to pretend that isn’t what this is about but that is what it’s about.” variety, and then, finally, Brutus said “Yes.” 

“You want any tips about the photo shoot? Pointers? Lingerie? All that is mine is at your disposal.” Antony lascivious is Antony at his finest. 

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just fine. I’ve got this.” 

“You’re hyperventilating a bit there…” 

He was. 

“No, no I’ve got this.” 

“Look, seriously, you’ve got nothing to worry about - you’re hot, you’re young (ish), you’re going to make a lot of money.” 

“I like money.” This, a most dishonourable fact that usually one should never speak about, was very true. 

“And you don’t even have to engage in questionable money lending endeavors this time!” 

“It was legal.” 

“Sort of.” 

“Anyway…” 

“Back to talking about your ass-“ 

Brutus raised his head from where he’d been resting it on his knees, trying to remember how to breathe, “No, please, lets not.” (Ignore that. Yes. Please. Lets.) 

“You do realize I’m buying one of those calendars.” 

“You and everyone else. Why am I doing this again?” 

“For the Honour of Rome and the continuance of the Republic, darling. You’re usual reasons. The ones on your business cards.” 

“I know _that_. I meant why couldn’t we have just done a bake sale again?” 

(It should be noted here that no one in the Roman Senate or the Roman Army can cook much less bake. They all just think they can. The Roman Populace is still recovering from the last bake sale. But as I'm sure you’ll all be pleased to hear, the city’s doctors are doing extremely well just now. Something about an outbreak of listeria…) 

“You want to know why? Isn't it obvious?" Antony smirked, "I mean... Look at me. If you've got it, _flaunt_ it. And I think we can all agree that I and my friends definitely have 'it'. Your lot just can’t take a hint and accept that since their wives don’t find them attractive enough to sleep with anymore no one else will either.” 

“That’s not- I mean-“ It _was_ kind of an inarguable point. Gathering himself, Brutus responded to the one part of that sentence he _could_ argue with, “They’re not your friends - they’re the guys you sometimes, irregularly, underpay to die for you.” 

“Harsh.” 

“True.” 

“And your mother slept around a lot and used to sext Caesar while the Senate was in session.” 

“That’s-“ 

“Also true.” 

There was a long moment of silence. Brutus stared at the floor slowly turning bright red. You would think that having grown up surrounded by such rumors he’d be used to it, but an honourable man’s ability to blush at the slightest provocation is not to be underestimated. 

“Speaking of inappropriate behavior in the Senate-“ Brutus finally overcame his filial shame and rallied himself to return to the topic at hand. 

“Make the board meetings less boring and I’ll stop making them interesting.” 

“Yeah… that’s not going to happen to anything close to your demanding standards.” 

“Everyone needs a little more porn in their life.” 

“No, they really don’t.” 

“And yet you’re going to go and shoot some borderline pornographic images tomorrow. Actually, forget about borderline.” Antony grinned and leaned back lazily on the couch, “I’m going to enjoy this.” 

“You and everybody else….” Brutus looked as miserable as a kicked corgi on a rainy day. 

“Maybe even your wife - Miracles do happen.” 

Did I say a kicked corgi? I meant a horribly excited corgi who just found out his butt is the cutest thing on the planet earth and that it’s going to insure him all the treats and hugs he could ever desire. This of course was hastily hidden behind the patented “I’m too Stoic for this Toga” expression. 

“Portia doesn’t look at calendars like this…” 

“Oh yes she does.”

From somewhere (not really sure where… Maybe somewhere between the six bottles of empty Jack Daniels and the playboys that had been cut out to look like little paper dolls. No. I don’t know why. I’m just the author.) Antony pulled a large stack of papers. 

“Check it out. The clientele of Mr. Marcus Censorinus and his most excellent calendars.” 

And there indeed, right at the top of the C section of the highly organized, highlighted, alphabetized list was Mrs. Portia Catonis. 

“How did you…” 

“With much hard work, sweat, blood, and tears, a team of highly trained operatives - all in hopes of a reward from your sweet mouth…” 

“You slept with the receptionist didn't you.” 

“Yeah.” 

Brutus stared at the list like a man in love. Antony fiddled with the cap on one of the liquor bottles, waited a minute, then another… 

“So… about that reward…” 

“I’ve got to go - I have an appointment with Cicero at the senate house.” 

“You’re going to go get your hair cut and frantically spend several hours at the gym aren’t you.” 

“…No.” 

“Say ‘hi’ to Maurice for me.” 

“Fine.” 

Brutus stepped out onto the front porch, Antony followed, there was a long pause, they looked up and down the street, then, as if rehearsed, they both started shouting at each other at the top of their lungs - 

“Don't know why I-"  
“You're a bastard with no sense of-"  
“Should’ve killed you when I-"  
“You deserved every bit of-"  
“Fucking Republican-"  
“Go back to Egypt and die of an overdose!”  
“You overeducated traitor, why don’t you just-"  
“Drunken empire destroyer-"  
“You whoretacular wonder crimp!”  


There was a pause. Brutus frowned and tilted his head to the side, “Wait. What?”

“I thought it sounded good…”

“Yeah, but…” Brutus hesitated, then shrugged, “Well, it wasn’t your worst.” 

Antony grinned, but Brutus continued- “Not your best either…” Antony flipped him off. 

“See you next week?” 

“Yeah… Say ‘hi’ to Cleo for me…” 

And _Scene._

.

.

.

Tune back in next week for a tasteful expose on Mr. Marcus Censorious, where our reporter will get taken behind the scenes at his studio in the influential Palatine district! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry... Did I say tasteful? Hahaha... Wasn't that funny. Such a laugh. But seriously though. There are going to be naked Romans in this chapter. And that is no laughing matter. 
> 
> P.S. I would like to thank the wonderful Mr. Ω for his contribution to the insult war. Its been an absolute _pleasure_ insulting each other in the name of literature.


	6. A Liberator Liberated

And now, at last, we return to poor Mr. Marcus Censorinus. He'd had a long career, many successes - “Vestals on Fire” in ’48, had been a particularly fine publication, as had the once annual, “Roman Patricians after Dark” (though whether any of the models actually _had_ been patricians was still a point of great debate. Due to some very clever photography no faces could _actually_ be seen…), and its sequel, “Wolf Mothers of Rome”, had almost outstripped its predecessor in sales - but never, in all the 30 years he’d been at work, had he met a model as entirely unwilling as Marcus Junius Brutus.  


Strawberry daiquiris were the only solution.  


And Beyonce. Apparently.  


The Korean Pop music was, perhaps, a bit more of a surprise.  


Well, who was he to judge, his studio was a safe space - what happened there stayed there. Sort of. Not really. Not at all, actually. Much like Vegas, in fact…  


In his professional opinion, this might turn out to be one of his finest works. A magnum opus if you will: “A Liberator Liberated - A New Angle on Marcus Brutus.” Yes. That did sound awfully good. In ten years he might even do a retrospective… “Like Mother like Son - Men and Women of the Junii" - he did have some awfully good unused pictures of Servilia back in her rebellious phase (who are we kidding, she’s _always_ been in her ‘rebellious phase’), if only her father hadn’t insisted on suppressing those…  


“Can I please put some clothes on now?” Brutus raised his hand hesitantly, further completing the image of nervous, uncomfortable, school boy. All that was missing was the uniform. Actually, any clothing at all probably would have done just fine. Brutus was still on set, pondering how he’d never really understood how cold marble was until he had to spend half the morning in varying states of nakedness on a mock up set of the Roman senate.  


Mr. Censorinus nodded absentmindedly, shifting his camera slightly, “Yeah, sure doll, just one sec… Turn just a little to the right- yeah... And then look over here- yes, just like that- now imagine…” Mr. Censorinus hesitated, “Usually I tell my models to imagine Antony just walked in from the Lupercal race and is looking right at you with _that_ look, the one in the calendar from ‘56… But I’m guessing that probably won't do anything for…” There was a long pause, Mr. Censorinus looked at Brutus, then glanced at his aid, shrugged, and turned back to the camera, “Never mind - That’s perfect.”  


A couple clicks of the shutter, a few readjustments, and then -  
“That’s a wrap everyone!”  


Brutus pulled a robe around himself and, still a little tipsy, sat down at the edge of the set.  


“Are you going to need a ride home?” Mr. Censorinus asked. He really did not need another citation for someone driving home drunk from his studio. It wasn’t _his_ fault that vodka and pornographic photography went so well together.  


“No, no I’m good… I think I've got a ride”  


Mr. Censorinus followed Brutus’ gaze and nodded, “Ah, yes. I see. Excellent, excellent…” He bagged up his camera and headed to his office.  


“Well, what did you think?” Trying very hard to look cool, and nonchalant, and totally comfortable standing around in a bathrobe, Brutus looked up at Antony, who, of course, had been there the entire time eating grapes. Regular models get _privileges_.  


“You know, I think you're one of those people who gets better with age. Not that you weren't a very sexy 16 year old, but I'm kind of over the whole “pederasty” thing.”  


“Does that mean you'll be selling your house in Athens, then?”  


“Oh no. Too much nostalgia. So many memories. Much history.”  


Brutus looked down at the floor, he nervously tugged at the fraying edge of his robe, “Um. Do you think… I mean- Portia…”  


“Do I think your lady’s going to have the hots for you and she’ll finally let you see what’s going on under that pencil skirt? Duh.”  


Brutus flushed beet red, “You didn't have to say it like that! And I already know what’s... going on… I mean-”  


“Come on. We both know you’ve never done it with the lights on. But seriously though,” Antony put two very firm hands on Brutus’ shoulders, looked him square in the eye with something approaching a paternal air (and by approaching I mean it was more than a couple miles off), and said: “Go forth my son! Be a man! Get the girl! Make babies!”  


_“Shut up.”_ Brutus hissed, punched Antony’s shoulder, and turned to go as Antony shouted-  


“IF IT DOESN’T WORK OUT, CALL ME!”


	7. Epilogue

It did work out.  
It worked out so well.  
It worked out so, _so_ well in fact that Servilia could finally stop harping at Brutus about how few grandchildren she had. None, in fact, as she liked to remind him. No grandchildren at all. And Portia discovered something better than Stoicism. And yes. It involves the letters B and C and it isn't referring to a year.  


In the end, Portia didn't want anyone else seeing her darling, precious, super-sexy- I mean honourable- Roman Eagle naked. She was all possessive like that. So she bought every copy of that calendar ever printed. This might have annoyed a less forgiving husband, but due to his mad skills on the stock market, and going by the generally blissed out expression on his face, Brutus really didn’t care.  


Thus, Cassius’ evil schemes were foiled, the ladies of Rome had to make do with yet another calendar starring the one, the only, the incredibly inebriated Marcus Antonius (No one was complaining really), and technically speaking, the Senate won the great battle of the Pinup Calendars. They basked on their laurels briefly, but once word got out that their idea of a victory party involved reruns of the senate C-SPAN, and the Army was throwing one hell of a ‘Defeat Party’ over at the Campus Martius, public opinion swiftly returned to Their Boys in Red. The profits from the bar and food trucks alone (and whatever was going on in that dark room off to the side that Caesar wasn't ever supposed to know about), more than beat the profits from the calendars, however much money Portia had ended up spending in the end.  


And finally, to the delight of everyone who never had to look at Brutus’ sad corgi face on Valentine’s day again, the bedroom of the Junius household was a much improved, and much more frequented space. As was the couch, the kitchen counter, and the shower (yes, dear reader, they did finally leave the lights on). Not to TMI anyone or anything. And if Antony had somehow gotten his hands on an advance copy of Brutus’ calendar, no one needed to know. He certainly wasn’t going to tell. But I’m sure, if you ask him very, _very_ nicely (and your name isn’t Caius Cassius) you might just be able to sneak a peak.

## THE END

  


  
  



End file.
